


Ladies' Night

by morrezela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Sam, Drunk Sex, Exhibitionism, M/M, Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrezela/pseuds/morrezela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam does stupid things when he’s drunk and happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ladies' Night

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted for blindfold: again I say PWP. Also exhibitionism and voyeurism isn’t even a kink of mine. I have no idea why I wrote this.
> 
> All mistakes you find are my own.

So there’s a reason that Sam normally doesn’t get drunk unless he’s feeling maudlin. When the world isn’t ending, and he’s feeling fairly good about life, drinking only makes him feel carefree. And being carefree makes him feel like being free from everything else in life, and that pretty much translates into him wanting to be free of his clothing.

Being drunk also makes him horny – a fact that he will never tell his brother. Ever.

Sam first found out about this particular… thing when he was away at Stanford. Drinking was nothing new to him, he’d had his first drink far before his frat boy years, but he’d always had the pressures and the worries of the hunting life keeping him down before.

Three keggers later, and Sam Winchester had the reputation of being “That guy that strip teases at parties.”

As a consequence, he started not to be invited to the fraternity parties, but got invited to a lot of sorority ones instead. He didn’t really mind. Hot chicks were hot chicks, and without Dean around to mock for being sexist, Sam had to admit that being surrounded by a lot of sexy, single girls was way better than being surrounded by sweaty, Neanderthal guys.

Not that Sam doesn’t like guys and their accompanying dicks, he just doesn’t like it when they’re being dicks, and there is nothing like a room full of straight-and-going-to-prove-it jocks to just sap the homosexual sex appeal away.

The only person that Sam has ever found to be an appealing dick is Dean, but that’s just because he knows Dean would do anything for him. He might have to beg. He might have to plead. He might even have to walk away and do their whole separation routine, but Dean caves. He always caves, and most days Sam doesn’t feel bad about that because it makes Dean happy. It shouldn’t, but the Winchesters are fucked in the head, so Sam doesn’t worry about it.

There are lots of other things to fret over in the world, and that is exactly the reason that Sam thought it was safe to start cracking open the good stuff. He had mistakenly thought that he was sufficiently depressed, but the more blitzed he became, the hornier he got.

It’s not all his fault. It’s just that Dean is wearing his Henley, and it’s grabbing at his pecs like it wants to rub those perfect, flat male nipples until they pucker as far as they can. It’s gripping Dean’s arms like two giant, Sam-like hands, and because Dean has forgone his usual layers of plaid, Sam can see where Dean’s jeans are gripping at his ass, the seam of them just barely dipping between Dean’s ass crack like fingers.

Sam’s jeans never grip his ass like that, but they sure do start gripping his dick pretty damn hard, and he can’t think with that pressure. His clothes are stifling him, and as he takes another shot of tequila, he figures that his coat, flannel shirt and pullover don’t need to be on. After all, he still has his tee shirt on, so he isn’t technically stripping, and if he does it with a little flick of his wrist and thrust of his hips, well there isn’t anybody over in his dark corner of the bar anyway. Everybody else is watching Dean’s ass as he bends over the pool table to part another poor idiot from his money.

Sam gets a few appreciative stares as he struts up to the bar to get his next drink, and he preens a bit, flexing large biceps at anybody who’ll look. He feels Dean’s eyes on him, knows his brother’s gaze like nothing else. When he looks over, Dean’s leering at him and gives him a dirty wink.

It’s a poke, a taunt, and Sam knows it. Dean doesn’t mean anything by it because Dean is always an asshole, and he doesn’t exactly know that he’s Sam’s number one subject for his gay jerk off material. It’s only by the virtue of having grown up with Dean that he isn’t Sam’s number one period.

Dean instilled in Sam an appreciation for the art of the female body, and hot as sin Dean might be, but he’d look ridiculous with boobs. Sam likes boobs. Sam liked Jess’s boobs a lot. Granted they had nothing on Dean’s ass. Or Dean’s cock. Or, oh, Dean’s balls. Silly little hairy things just swinging between Dean’s legs and…

So Sam might have developed a few fetishes over the years. He thinks that is pretty obvious what with his desire to take his clothes off in public. Like he’s doing right now, long fingers operating completely independently of his brain, and it’s only as his jeans hit the floor that he realizes he’s down to his boxers. He hasn’t a fucking clue where his boots went, or whose hand is sliding up his thigh, but Dean is staring at him like he’s possessed, and that isn’t a good thing.

Dean’s stare is hot. Sam might hate it when Dean orders him around and gets bossy in their day to day lives, but… Sam kind of likes the intensity in the way that Dean glares.

He should be worrying about other things than his weird fondness for Dean’s facial expressions though, because he hasn’t gotten kicked out of the bar yet, and he appears to be on top of the actual bar and…

Okay so there’s money at his feet. He’s apparently far drunker than he thought he was, and he’s stripping on a bar in the middle of freaking Montana, and getting paid for it. There’s a crowd of women around him and a crowd of men behind them glaring daggers at Sam. It’s not sexy like Dean’s stare, but there are enough of them getting lucky off the second-hand horny Sam’s causing in the women that they aren’t calling wrath down upon Sam’s head yet.

Sam casts a drunken glance in his brother’s direction to make certain that Dean is keeping an eye on things, but all he gets is an infuriating smirk that clearly says that Dean has always got Sammy’s back, and he should know better. The smirk so comes complete with the ‘Sammy,’ and Sam figures that deserves some retribution.

It is very hard to strip tease to slow, country songs. If Bobby ever finds out that Sam took his clothes off provocatively to “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” the old hunter is going to skin Sam alive, but Sam’s got the legs to pull it off. He’s completely smashed and over half hard, and there are a lot of fifties and hundreds that get thrown when his shorts go flying into the air.

And sure, his ass might not be quite as fine as Dean’s but it is pretty damned muscular, and his dick is fantastic. A couple of female hands grab for it, but it’s Dean who makes it to the bar and pulls Sam down behind it. The only other person back there is the bartender who is waving away the bouncer and pointing at the beer because the crowd is far more interested in ordering alcohol than in chasing Sam out.

As a matter of fact, there are a few of those drinks coming Sam’s way and far more coming to the women sending him the drinks from those women’s admirers.

“I think we’re in the horniest bar ever,” Sam slurs towards Dean.

Dean growls at him and grabs his cock. “Not interested in your brain, big boy.”

And, yes, if Sam’s brain was functioning he’d realize that there is something very odd about all of the behavior surrounding them, but Dean’s hand is sliding up and down Sam’s length, and he’s getting harder, and all that he can do is thrust into that marvelous grip.

“Turn around,” Dean orders, and Sam obeys. He leans his arms onto the polished wood of the counter, and if he looks forward, he can see a sea of women’s faces just inches from his own, but he doesn’t give them more than a cursory glance because Dean’s fingers are shoving up his ass, and the roaring of the crowd just gets more intense.

He doesn’t know where Dean got the slick from, but he’s grateful for it because he’s had enough pain in his life. He doesn’t like it with his sex, and there is no way that Dean’s bending him over like this for just a quick finger fuck.

Sam moans as Dean rubs against his prostate, and that just sets the bar patrons off even more. Even amidst the cheering voices, Sam hears the sound of Dean’s zipper going down, and the rough, “Spread your legs and get your ass down here you moose,” makes his cock jerk a little.

He does his best to comply, and it’s a shock to feel the wet, smooth skin of Dean’s dick press against his hole instead of latex. He knows that Dean always carries protection with him, and his fuzzy brain can’t comprehend why Dean isn’t using it now.

“Gonna make sure you know you’re mine, Sammy,” Dean growls as he shoves inside, almost like he’s answering Sam’s unasked question.

Sam whimpers and thrusts forward and then back against Dean’s increasingly hard thrusts. He’s sliding against the bar, dollar bills rubbing up against his nipples like thin papery fingers. The cheering is getting louder, working up to a crescendo, and as Dean’s hand wraps around Sam’s leaking cock, he sprays against the bottles hidden behind the bar, wetting down the labels of the Jack Daniels and Jim Beams. It’s like some sort of weird foursome.

Dean moans loudly, and it’s clearly for show, but the rain of money that comes down on them is worth it.

His second moan is quieter, but more genuine as he pumps inside of Sam’s ass, and Sam feels his own tired dick twitch a little as the dirty feeling of hot, wet come pushing its way into him reaches his hind brain.

“Jesus, you’re a kinky fucker, Sammy,” Dean purrs into his ear.

“Fuck you,” Sam answers, trying to remember where exactly he threw his socks and if there is any hope of retrieving them. He liked those socks.

“Like fucking you better. Been fucking me since puberty, it’s lost its shine,” Dean retorts as he pulls out with a squelch.

His jizz starts running out almost immediately, and Sam spares a moment to wonder at the sheer volume of it. He knows Dean jerks off religiously, the fact that he’s still got that kind of load is astounding. Almost as astounding as the grin that Dean is giving the crowd and the autographs he’s signing.

“What the hell, man?” Sam slurs as he stumbles up against his brother. He’s still too drunk to by shy about the fact that people are actually eyeing his sloppy ass in the glass mirror of the bar, but he isn’t ready to be signing autographs about it.

“Amateurs welcome, Sammy. Thought you would’ve read that on the sign on the way in,” Dean drawls.

And sure, Sam had seen the sign. He just hadn’t gotten that there were porn connotations to it. “That legal?” Sam asks.

“About as legal as our normal ways of making money, but word is that the sheriff is a big perv so he lets it slide.”

“So you just fucked me because…” Sam trails off unsure of what to add on.

Dean turns around to lean up and give him a kiss on his chin. “You’re a big girl,” he says, “Good thing it’s ‘Ladies' Night.’”

“Dean,” Sam whines, taking another shot of something blue from the bartender and nodding his thanks to the redhead that sent it to him.

“Don’t ‘Dean’ me you big, gay, exhibitionist flirt. I’m not the one jerking off with your shirts. Word to the wise, Sammy, real men pay attention to where their spunk lands.”

“I hate you,” Sam tells him.

“Not what your ass says about me,” Dean retorts.

“Whatever. As soon as I find my boots I’m dragging your ass out of here, and we’ll say what it has to say about me.”

It isn’t Sam’s best response in their ongoing battle of wits, but it makes Dean leer at him and slap his bottom hard enough to sting. Sam’s cock jerks, and he resigns himself to the fact that he’s just a damned kinky son of a bitch, but that’s okay because so is Dean.


End file.
